What does it mean to have identity?
To be a person with a past, a present and a future (even if the latter causes
some anxiety)? What is it like to die, and what would it be like to be reborn,
to retain your sense of identity without the accoutrements of friends, of
place, of projects? In Piano, Jean Echenoz explores these complex issues
with a delightful lightness of touch.

Concert pianist Max Delmarc finds
that his problems pursue him beyond death, that even a new face, a new name, a
new job, and a new place to live are not enough to quench old desires; for
Rose, the ideal beauty of his youth, for music, and for a sense of fulfillment
which is forever illusory.

We are drawn into the experience of
identity and its consequences without the baggage of philosophical analysis,
but with a disconcerting sense of familiarity. We all know we are going to die,
but to save us from any self-delusion of immortality, Echenoz tells us exactly
how long Max has to live. It is precisely the lack of such knowledge that
permits us to wallow in the delusion that death happens to others, old men with
lung disease, accident victims, suicides who simply abandon hope. We are
allowed no such comfort as we follow the life of Max. Echenoz interrupts the
narrative at critical points to remind us of Max's fate, and of our own
fantasies about Max's sexual life and inner world. Through Max we live with our
eyes open, unable to deny the realities that stare us in the face.

Piano is the sort of book you want
to read again as soon as you've finished. Not to uncover a missing clue, or
hidden nuance: Echenoz's style is to put it all in front of the reader and let
him make what he will of it. But you want to be drawn again into the world of
Max; his rather pompous manner and pathetic imaginings and, once dead, his
fascination with the all too worldly pop stars, Peggy Lee and Dean Martin.
There is an enchanting informality of style that masks the delicate interplay
of fantasy and reality. The Center and its management is Kafkaesque in its
anonymity and unquestionable authority.

Echenoz is playful. Absurd things
that couldn't happen, do happen, and you find yourself believing them. There
are frequent reminders that you are reading a book, not living a life; Echinoz
is confident enough to say that all is fiction, you should never trust anyone,
especially not an author. But the presence of the author, rather than
disturbing the dream, adds to it.

Piano is short for such a
rich novel. Read it on the train as you travel to work. Look through the window
and you might see a lost lover. You will certainly wonder if you worry too much
about dreams, about what might have been, about what is to come. Piano is a
compelling read, and if the ending is predictable, that too is not a
disappointment. You will want it to be otherwise, and foolishly believe that it
could be.†

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